In the Morning

by Willis Boyd Allen

Stir in the trees

And breathe in the grasses,

The soft, low grasses,

And when the tall buttercup,

Tall in the grasses,

Thy light foot passes,

Gather for me

A wee grain of gold from its treasures rare,

A ray of the sunlight it treasures there;

Then beg of the daisies a bit of their white,